literature

coffin

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Literature Text

I thought myself to be awake, when in fact
I was still in the locket of sleep

The room in which I spend my days
Was little changed, bar for an obvious observation
It had grown in its proportions
Its width and size….

However that applied solely
To my coffin’s head and end both…

And when the other side
Of the world I within slept
Was seen…

From the vantage point
Of that very coffin…of which I speak…
And where I sit and sleep…

I peered across to the other side
And I hear what I cannot see…
Footsteps on a glimmering floor…

The heat too far away to reach me…
The machinery too high for me to reach it…
The dancing of my curtains…

I gaze over the coffin, the bed’s head, high arch
And I see a burrowing, long bodied insect
In a cycle of constant exit and entry
Through the wall’s under crack…

I look to my right and find a series
Of merely gathered crumbs
Papers turned to balls in a wooden floors court

Before another glance of the creature…
I feel the pulling of the coffin…
A twisting of my arms…
My head turned forcibly away….

Toward abject reality…
....
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